"
"We can't afford it. It's fifteen cents a bottle."
"But I haven't had a swallow of beer in three weeks."
"Drink STEAM beer, then. You've got a nickel. I gave you a quarter day
before yesterday."
"But I don't like steam beer now."
It was so with everything. Unfortunately, Trina had cultivated tastes in
McTeague which now could not be gratified. He had come to be very proud
of his silk hat and "Prince Albert" coat, and liked to wear them on
Sundays. Trina had made him sell both. He preferred "Yale mixture" in
his pipe; Trina had made him come down to "Mastiff," a five-cent tobacco
with which he was once contented, but now abhorred. He liked to wear
clean cuffs; Trina allowed him a fresh pair on Sundays only. At first
these deprivations angered McTeague. Then, all of a sudden, he slipped
back into the old habits (that had been his before he knew Trina) with
an ease that was surprising. Sundays he dined at the car conductors'
coffee-joint once more, and spent the afternoon lying full length upon
the bed, crop-full, stupid, warm, smoking his huge pipe, drinking his
steam beer, and playing his six mournful tunes upon his concertina,
dozing off to sleep towards four o'clock.
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